


Apologia

by zombiekittiez



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Apologies, Break Up, During episode 12, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Poor Life Choices, Self-Destruction, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, poor socialization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-29 10:20:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiekittiez/pseuds/zombiekittiez
Summary: It's cold inside and trashed- half the police, half himself, half the fact that this is a trailer and he knows what Cheryl Blossom must think of someone who lives in a place like this. He stands inside the door, watching her walk through the rooms slowly, touching here and there the pieces of his destroyed life, the shredded leftovers of his mangled, precious past and waits for the insults, the barrage of words that will condemn him, his father, his way of life, his lineage and he thinks,good.He does not expect Cheryl to start unbuttoning her shirt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead fucks up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame RAS for calling them two sides to the same coin.

When Jughead pushes past Betty in the hallway he is so angry he can't even walk straight- his right hand has to briefly right himself, skimming the lockers as he stumbles, drunk on his own rage, out of the door. She's so calm and collected, her ponytail is so neat and she says things like _FP is innocent_ when Jughead knows his dad has been anything, everything but. This stubborn determination- and he's so pissed because wasn't this what he _wanted?_ Her blind, unwavering belief based on his belief but now he doesn't believe anymore and the whole thing is stupid, he's stupid, and he just wants her to say it _say it._ He thinks, in an ugly little way, that this isn't about him, this is about her, about perfect Betty Cooper and her slum cute boyfriend, cleans up good but she can't possibly be dating a guy with a killer for a father. _Fuck. Her._

So he isn't paying attention, which is how he runs into Cheryl Blossom for the second time that day. She is sitting in her car in the lot, breathing heavily, hair a little mussed, bent a little over the steering wheel and his first thought is to check if she is okay except that when he gets a few paces from the car she snaps to attention and he wonders if maybe she's just been waiting to run him down, splatter him to match the exterior of the cherry red convertible. 

Cheryl, instead, asks him to get in the car and come with her and he is so taken aback by her _please_ that he does. Jughead wonders if she's going to kill him. Drown him in the river, take him someplace her parents and her crazy old Nana can string him up and take his virgin blood. He's honestly, at the moment, a little okay with that. 

She takes him home, to his father's trailer. He wants to ask how she knew where he lived, why she brought them there but can't form the words- might be afraid of the answer. He does think, cynically, that at least its status as a crime scene means that her nice shiny car is safe outside- it looks too much like a trap, next to all the yellow crime scene tape, and no one in the Southside is dumb enough to take that kind of chance. 

It's cold inside and trashed- half the police, half himself, half the fact that this is a fucking trailer and he knows what Cheryl Blossom must think of someone who lives in a place like this. He stands inside the door, watching her walk through the rooms slowly, touching here and there the pieces of his destroyed life, the shredded leftovers of his mangled, precious past and waits for the insults, the barrage of words that will condemn him, his father, his way of life, his lineage and he thinks, _good._

He does not expect Cheryl to start unbuttoning her shirt. 

He stares, frozen, as the black lace bra emerges, white skin, red hair spilling over shoulders. She doesn't talk- she can't talk, he realizes. Cheryl has been a Blossom so long that she doesn't understand sincere, doesn't know how to speak in words that don't cut or lie and she is trying to do neither now. Cheryl takes his hand and slides it inside of her clothes and she is warm. 

Cheryl is apologizing. 

He opens his mouth to say _no_ (yes) but when he does her lips are on his and though he does not love the sticky sweet feel of her lipstick he does like the way her tongue moves, clear experience startling him, so different from Betty's soft, hesitant, innocent kisses. 

It's Betty that does it. Sweet good girl Betty who might kind of still be his girlfriend- they hadn't talked about it yet, not with the whole _father in jail_ and Fred Andrews kicking him out practically and his mother doesn't want him and Betty, Betty is wrong and when she realizes she is wrong she isn't going to want him either. 

Cheryl wants him. 

And this is a thing he can decide, he can take to the grave or carry like a weapon in his coat so that when Betty throws him down he can use it on her, _cut through golden hair and blue eyes_ in a swath of hurt that will help him drag himself back up to his feet. 

Jughead fucks Cheryl on his father's couch. The wind blows in through the broken door and they can see their breath but it doesn't matter. It doesn't take long. Afterward she pulls her panties up, her skirt down. She drives him to the police station. 

“Do we ever talk about this?” Jughead asks in the car and she turns her face to his and he is expecting for her to say _no,_ to say _fuck you,_ to say _you are nothing, less than nothing, and no one will ever believe you._

“I don't care,” she says instead and her eyes are flat and dead. 

Halfway through the conversation with his dad he starts to wonder. They lock eyes- light and dark. Cruel and kind. And FP's been cruel- so cruel. Drunk cruel. Birthday parties and baseball games and forgetting the groceries because liquor and never reading a fucking thing Jughead had ever written because it was time and it was effort and because he spoke with a proud lilt about not being a reader- 

But he has never been like this. 

“Got it,” Jughead says and walks away. Outside the door he pauses; as it swings back on itself he hears a single, soft sound- a sob. 

His legs move mechanically, taking him around the corner and out the door and he is hyperventilating and doesn't realize it until Sheriff Keller has him sitting in a desk chair, head between his knees, breathing in low slow counts. 

“I'm sorry, son,” Keller says and he does, for the moment, look it- like he has recognized the sadness and the loneliness and the desperateness welling up inside Jughead and as he thinks for a wild moment about _Florida_ and _orange trees_ and _Disney World_ and he has _fucked up so badly now_. 

He shows up at the Cooper's house and Betty comes down, a soft smile on her face as she sees him that quickly shifts to puzzlement and concern and he _knows_ (has always known) that she doesn't care where he lives or who his family is, that she has decided for herself to help him when he isn't willing to help himself and he has called her fake and accused her of loving another man, of using him, of lying to hurt him, of working behind his back and she still stands there with love in her eyes and he was going to _skip town_ he had _fucked Cheryl Blossom_ and Betty is stepping out on the porch and pulling him into a hug and kissing his forehead and saying _I love you I love you_ and he knows, when he stops crying, he is going to tell her, going to leave her hurting. 

He hopes it's the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It hurts my feelings every time I break up Bughead but I seriously can't seem to stop doing it. Ugh. Comments appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cheryl gets a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More graphic than I usually write, but probably not a big deal to anyone else.

The phone call is not a surprise. Cheryl imagines that Betty Cooper is physically incapable of leaving well enough alone. The voice on the other end is lemon sorbet, sweet, citrus concern and for a moment she is honestly not sure if she is hallucinating- had Jughead Jones really come to school? Let her strike him like a sacrificial lamb- a martyr with a busted lip and dark, haunted eyes? Let her make it up to him the only way she could- with skin and with blood? Betty asks her to _come over, please. The door is open. Just come right in._

After Homecoming, after Cheryl had slipped out of her red gown, she had stood naked in front of her closet. Red. Red. Blossoms wear red. Red hair, red clothes, red little mouths, red nails, red tempers, red. Her hands were shaking. She had worn the ring- the family ring, Nana's ring for Jason's bride, resized to fit tall, American red cheeked girls. It was too loose, it slid down her index finger, was lost among the folds of her skirt on the floor. Cheryl tore down every piece of red clothing, left them like a carpet of Blossoms that she stepped on, while she wrapped herself in black kimono and decided never to wear red again. Now Thornhill is suffocating. There is too much red in her mother's lipstick, in her father's face. So Cheryl goes. 

Betty Cooper's room is the same- pinks and pastels, porcelain music boxes, stuffed animals. Cheryl expects, walking in, really any number of things. Recriminations. Tears. Curses. Maybe just harsh, angry breathing. Instead, Betty sits cross-legged on the bed, hair down in loose curls, a vague, pleasant expression. She is wearing red. 

“Where is everyone?” Cheryl asks, feigning indifference. 

“Out,” Betty says shortly. 

“Everyone?”

“Everyone,” Betty says. She rises in a flutter of skirts and walks to the vanity as Cheryl stands uncertainly and wonders if this is really happening, if she is really here or if she is still at Thornhill, escaping into some dramatic wish fulfillment fantasy and then refuses to consider what it would mean if _Betty in a red dress_ is the starring feature.

Betty picks up a heavy brush and turns back to Cheryl, eyes looking her up and down and for one wild moment Cheryl thinks she's about to get hit- slapped in the face, maybe, a physical punishment for her emotional crimes, and she flushes a little in anticipation that both makes her sick and a little warm. 

Betty, instead, slides onto the bed and begins brushing Cheryl's hair. Her hair is perfectly styled and Betty is brushing that out but something in the way her hands are gentle ( _loving?_ ), fingertips gliding through so that she cannot bring herself to complain. Betty's bare thigh is warm against her side where she kneels a little against Cheryl and she wonders if this is unrelated, if maybe her secret stayed a secret and this was all just some misguided pity party for the bitch with the dead brother. Knowing that she's fucked Betty's boyfriend behind her back and is sitting in her room, the words welling up to bursting with it- this is all so _high school_ that it's actually a little comforting. Cheryl imagines the fall out of this scenario with such anticipation- the way Betty's face will change and her soft lips tremble- maybe Betty will pin her to the vanity again, or to the bed, spank her with the brush, pull her hair, draw blood, leave marks.

Cheryl's mouth is already halfway open when Betty says “I'm sorry I took Polly and the babies away from you.” 

Cheryl tries to jerk away, to turn to spit in her face, to say she doesn't care, has never cared about crazy Polly Cooper and her little incest bastard babies but she can't – Betty keeps a firm but soft hand on her shoulders and flexes her fingers once, as a warning, that her grip could go a lot harder. Cheryl bruises easily. She settles back down. Betty resumes brushing. 

“You were doing a good job taking care of them. I should have known they wouldn't be in any danger if you were there.” 

Cheryl bites back a sharp reply and the shards of it cut her mouth, she feels herself crying as though it were happening to someone else.

Betty abandons the brush. She runs fingers through Cheryl's hair, softly ghosting through the strands to her shoulder, her neck. Cheryl arches into the touch. The sweater is stifling; Betty slips her fingers under the edge _it's so warm,_ she whispers, tugging the fabric off and up. She traces up and down the line of Cheryl's arm from the bedspread up to her collarbone, ignoring the goosebumps that rise, the flush from under the ivory lace bra

“I should have talked to you first. I should have told you what we were afraid of... I think you're afraid, too.” Betty trails off, fingers stilling. Cheryl makes a soft noise despite herself, in the back of her throat. 

“What?” Betty asks tenderly. “What?” 

Cheryl struggles silently. When every word is manipulation, a chess piece move is worthless - Betty's playing checkers, all her pieces left out for observation. 

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Betty asks, straddling Cheryl to look at her directly. Cheryl nods, looking at the floor. 

“I'm not Jughead,” Betty warns and Cheryl looks up then, tensing- this _is_ a trap, it's a very _good_ trap because Cheryl can't find the words to explain that, no, she isn't, that he had been martyrdom and freezing wind, discomfort and forbearance, that everything had been too firm, inflexible, cold and short. That Betty is warm and soft, pink and red and pliable and that Cheryl is shifting in place for the impatience to start and not stop, to touch and not stop touching. 

Betty kisses Cheryl thoroughly- moving to meet her halfway, stroking hands through long red hair and then lower, buttons, clasps. She takes the time to trace the skin, soothing, increasing pressure, until Cheryl is panting, harsh, heavy, spent. Then Betty slips a hand up Cheryl's skirt. 

“Is it good?” she asks, voice distant, eyes cool. Cheryl gives a hiccuping little breath, hitching her hips up higher as Betty slides fingers slowly into warm, wet. When Cheryl doesn't respond, Betty stills and Cheryl digs nails into Betty's thigh until she moves again. There's blood, but Betty doesn't retaliate, her fingers are careful and solid, steady and strong, delicate and long boned. 

“Do you _know_ why it's good, Cheryl?” Betty asks, nipping gentle at Cheryl's throat. Cheryl is on her knees, practically in Betty's lap- arms clinging to shoulders, pulling her closer, so close so close _so close-_

“I'm a Blossom, too,” Betty says, licking her ear, the corner of her mouth and everything is white and red on white and Cheryl comes, hard, heavy. As she straightens herself up, Betty leans back against the headboard, watches Cheryl through heavy lidded eyes. 

“Do you really want to know where everyone is?” Betty asks, her voice strangely low. 

Cheryl smooths her skirt, a little afraid to answer. 

“They're at the police station. Polly wanted to be there for the arrest of Jason's killer.” A heartbeat. 

“You know?” Cheryl asks. The room is spinning. She is cold, sitting in her white bra, her black leather skirt, her torn tights. 

“Of course,” Betty tilts her head to the side. “Don't you?” 

Cheryl's hands balls into fists. There's no proof, she thinks. Loose rings and red skirts. 

“Would you like to see?” Betty asks. Cheryl gives a tight little nod, thought she doesn't understand what Betty is asking until Betty picks up the laptop from the bedside table. Cheryl doesn't say anything when Betty pulls up the file. When she sees Jason's face in sharp focus, bruised, wild. Her father. The gun. 

Afterwards, Betty holds her, murmuring, stroking hair and arms while Cheryl sobs _I'm sorry, I'm sorry so sorry._

_You are,_ Betty sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am 100% convinced that Cheryl picks on Betty because she has a seriously misguided crush on her. Comments appreciated!


End file.
